Tunnel Vision

Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where...you should go next." ~ Frederick Buechner 

Where to go next....seems the question on everyone's minds here lately.  Transition is in the air and I think the scariest thing about change is the unknown.  What will it all look like in a few months time? What will life be like? What will work look like? What will I look like?

I despise change.  Always have..and I'm sure many of these blog posts have clued you in on that.  I leave Jordan in about 5 months and I haven't a clue exactly what is next..and to be quite honest, it's hard to grab hold of hope, trust, and joy during these times.  It's hard for me.  Because I hate the dark that lies ahead and the little glimmer of light on my feet right now sometimes isn't enough to help me feel good about stepping forward.  But funny thing about feelings, they can't always be our guide.  Trust me on this. I've spent a life time of learning how not to let my emotions control me.  I'm good at emoting..my face shows what I feel...my eyes betray my annoyance and pain.  And I am ALWAYS feeling.  It's rare that I would say I'm NOT feeling.   I would boast it's one of my best qualities, but it's also my worst.  And when I don't feel safe about stepping out or when the sadness in my heart wants to overtake me, and all I want to do is run the opposite way, I have a choice.  Either let my emotions dictate my actions, or choose to step out, even when I don't feel like it.  Even when I'm not sure there's a hand guiding me.  That's the beauty and agony of trust.  We all love the concept of trust, but how many of us actually get put in situations where we have to trust, and actually like it.  It sucks.  No way around it.  To believe and hope that something will work, that something lies ahead, even when we can't see it.  To believe that He is present in situations where we honestly CANNOT see him, to trust that this presence is moving, acting, and shaping.  So hard.

I've been feeling a lot in the last few months.  It's perhaps why I haven't chosen to write anything lately.  Because, where do you start?  Emotions are messy and they don't always line up easily on a blog page.  My heart has been sad, life expectations and hopes that have been crushed. There's been sweet moments of love, intense moments of happiness whispering of hope, and a contentedness that comes with true friendships.  But there's also been anger, betrayal, hurt, frustration, annoyance, and most of all the ever present questions of what does it mean? what will it look like? why did that happen?  No answers, just lots of whats and whys and whens.

I got a picture of Hezekiah's tunnel the other day while sitting and sorting my thoughts. For those that have been never been over to Jerusalem, this is a tunnel carved under the old City of David that carries the water from the spring to the city.  Hezekiah built it to protect the city's water source when under siege.

Eight years ago I walked that tunnel with some newly made life long friends.  The water was freezing, the ceiling was low in some places, and there was no light.  All you could feel were the two walls under your hands on either side, jagged rocks biting into flesh, the sound of your own footsteps in water, and footsteps ahead and behind.  Some of my friends had lights, but they were too far up ahead. Others held lights from behind.  But I had nothing.  Walking blindly, one foot in front of the other.  And then the light ahead would shine bright and I would catch a tiny glimpse of where I was headed. My breathe intaking from the beauty of the rock, and light catching on water.  Sometimes the light from behind would reach just enough ahead of me, and I would glance down and catch a glimpse of my sandeled feet in the cold running water.   Enough to know the ground I stood on was solid enough, and where I was walking wasn't going to hurt me.  The ever present tunnel walls at my sides.  If my hands weren't touching them, I would think they weren't there.  But then we would get to spaces where I would feel the walls on my shoulders, they pressed in, suffocating, but I knew to keep going.  To walk forward was the way out.  To walk forward was the way to the light.  To move in the direction the water was flowing.  To move in the direction of the unknown, the thick paralyzing darkness, trusting that soon the darkness would be shattered.

These memories play in my mind, the same darkness, the same cold feelings of fear, but looking deeper a thrill of hope, an expectation of something unseen that compels me to keep me moving.  A trust that there IS something ahead and the anticipation of it propelling me to walk.  The sturdiness of the presence of rock at my sides, above, and below, knowing others have walked this path and have survived, and knowing others walk it behind me.  It's the beauty and agony of trust.